Holly and the Photograph

by John Grey

The photograph is of your great-grandparents

from the Azores.

He is Joe. She is Beatriz.

You never met them.

This wedding photo may as well

have been dug up at an archaeological site.

But it’s been passed down

through the generations,

along with snapshots of other strangers

who share your blood.



It’s their supposed happiest day

but it can only make you sad.

You feel like someone

who wasn’t invited.

And how much you want to give

the tall gaunt man a hug.

And the plump woman

with the showy white gloves –

her sepia cheeks are ripe

for a kiss.

But they left you off the list.

It’s all your fault

for not being born yet.



And they are Portuguese

in a way you never could be.

Look at that determined face.

He’s willing to do any job,

no matter how hard.

He has a young bride to support.

And, inside those gloves,

I sense hands,

ready to get beyond

the foolery of a honeymoon,

pounce like cats

on the wedding gifts,

hand-me-downs

in her new kitchen,

bedroom and bath.
You’re so American,

you’ve anglicized your name.

No wonder you weren’t invited.

They wouldn’t recognize

your branch of the family.

And then there’s the clothes you wear.

Not a trace of any country,

old or new,

just the one you’re living in.



But you’re drawn to Joe and Beatriz.

And, in a way,

they’re drawn to you.

Maybe, a hundred years ago,

the cameraman said,

“Hold steady. Smile.

Look directly at Holly.”

They obeyed the first instruction.

The second, not so much.

The third, at times like this.